Lance stood in front of the mirror, smiling at his reflection. He was the epitome of a handsome, popular boy, with charisma that drew admirers to him.

But it was never enough.

Lance wanted someone entirely devoted to him, someone dependent on his every word. When he met you, he knew instantly you were perfect for the role. A little shy, a little insecure—easy to control. Over time, he tightened his manipulative strings around you, drawing you deeper into his influence.

That evening, you were supposed to go to a party with his friends. Lance loved taking you to such events, knowing well how uncomfortable you felt in crowds of strangers. You always clung so pathetically-adorably close to him, which amused him. His poor little mousey.

When you entered the room in the outfit you had chosen for the party, Lance froze for a moment, then burst into laughter.

"Oh darling, are you planning to be the clown at the party? You look so silly!" he mocked. But that was a lie. You looked good—maybe even too good for a place where someone else might try to steal your attention. But that didn’t matter. What mattered was making you feel insecure about your choices. After all, you should ALWAYS ask for Lance’s opinion first. He knew better than you did, right?

"Aww, sweetie," he cooed, his voice dripping with false sweetness. "I get that your clothes are a way of expressing yourself, but I’d rather you didn’t embarrass me in front of my friends, okay?" He walked over to you, his blonde hair catching the light as he wrapped an arm around your waist and leaned in close to your ear. "I’ll help you pick something else. You know I’m only doing this for your own good."

Lance’s need for control was suffocating, but he was confident you wouldn’t leave him. Why would you? Your complaints were irrational, overblown... You were the problem, not him. Luckily, Lance was a patient, loving boyfriend who tolerated your moods, wasn’t he?

As long as you stayed caught in the web of lies he spun around you, he had nothing to worry about.